Florence had other ideas. She was a plump, comfortably proportioned woman in her late sixties. She had opened the tearoom nearly a decade earlier in the wake of the crash and somehow managed to keep it going during the worst of the hard times.
The tearoom had survived because the exclusive town of Burning Cove was a retreat for the rich and the famous, two groups that were largely insulated from the financial disaster that had shaken the rest of the country. But even in such a wealthy community it took fortitude and sound business instincts to stay profitable. Florence possessed plenty of both qualities. Adelaide was learning a lot from her.
In addition to hiring a waitress with no restaurant experience and no references, Florence had helped her find an inexpensive place to live, a cottage on the bluffs above Crescent Beach. When Adelaide had explained that she could not come up with the first month’s rent, Florence had waved off the problem. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it and you can repay me later. Something tells me you’ll earn your keep.
Adelaide was pleased that she had, indeed, begun to earn her keep. She badly wanted to repay the debt. When she suggested that Refresh start creating and marketing specialized teas and herbal tisanes, Florence was dubious but she agreed to let the experiment take place. Within a month, the Refresh Tearoom, which had enjoyed a quiet but steady business for years, moved up to an entirely new level of prosperity.
Recently, a few of the celebrities, socialites, and tycoons who used Burning Cove as a vacation playground had begun requesting exclusive blends designed for specific personal needs. In the past few weeks Adelaide had concocted teas and herbal tisanes to treat a variety of complaints—insomnia, anxiety, and lack of energy. One of her most popular teas was the one she had created to alleviate the symptoms of a hangover—a common problem for the Hollywood set who tended to party until dawn.
Business had picked up so much that Florence was thinking of hiring another waitress so Adelaide could concentrate on creating and packaging the special blends.
All of which made it more difficult to come up with excuses for a failure to show an appropriate interest in an apparently eligible male. Jake Truett did not wear a wedding ring, but Adelaide reminded herself that that didn’t mean much. She didn’t wear a wedding ring, either.
She filled the small sack with the quarter pound of Tranquility tea blend that she had just measured. “I really don’t think Mr. Truett is interested in me, Flo. We’re two very different people. He’s a wealthy businessman who has traveled the world. I’m a tearoom waitress. I’ve never been out of California. It’s not as if we have a great deal in common.”
“I think Mr. Truett is just shy,” Florence said. “He’s trying to work up his nerve to ask you out. You should give him some encouragement.”
“Trust me, the man is not the shy type. I’m very sure that if he wanted something, he would go after it.”
“I told you, I heard that he was widowed a few months ago. That means he’s out of practice when it comes to dating.”
“He’s probably still grieving,” Adelaide said. “That would explain why he never smiles.”
“Maybe he just needs a reason to smile.” Florence winked, picked up the pot of tea she had just prepared, and bustled out of the kitchen.
There was no point arguing with her. Adelaide suppressed a sigh, dusted tea off her hands, folded the top of the sack, and went out of the kitchen. The customer, a harried-looking young woman dressed in a business suit, was waiting anxiously at the counter.
“Here you are, Miss Moss,” Adelaide said. “Miss Westlake’s special blend, Tranquility.”
Vera Westlake was the latest Hollywood celebrity to discover Refresh. Florence, who followed the celebrity gossip magazines with great enthusiasm, had been thrilled when the star the press had labeled the most beautiful woman in Hollywood became a customer.
“Thank you.” Miss Moss opened her handbag and took out her wallet. “Miss Westlake will be very happy to get this. She ran out this morning while she was studying her new script. She insisted that her driver bring me into town immediately to get some more. She says that drinking the special blend you made up for her helps her maintain her focus.”
“Always happy to be of service,” Adelaide said.
Miss Moss paid for the tea and scurried out of the lightly crowded tearoom. A limousine was waiting for her. She climbed into the rear seat. The driver motored off down the tree-lined street.
Adelaide picked up a pad and pencil. It was time to take Jake Truett’s order. Green tea. No sugar. No tea cakes. No scones. No cookies.
Truett had become a regular shortly after arriving in town eight days earlier. Florence had immediately made a few inquiries. She had returned with the news that Truett was a businessman who, until recently, had owned an import-export business headquartered in Los Angeles. After the death of his wife, he had sold his business and retired.
According to Florence, there were rumors that Truett had some health problems—something to do with exhausted nerves. Evidently his doctor had ordered him to spend a couple of months at the seaside in the hope that the ocean air and long walks on the beach would help him recover.
His nerves aside, Truett certainly appeared physically fit. Unlike so many of the celebrities and socialites who vacationed in Burning Cove, he lacked the snaky-thin body that was the Hollywood ideal, a look that was generally achieved through chain-smoking and the frequent consumption of cocktails. Truett was lean but he was sleekly muscled.
She found the rest of him equally intriguing. He was tall but not exceptionally so. He didn’t tower over her the way Conrad had done. His dark hair was cut short and parted on the side. He was not unhandsome, but his ascetic features were too austere to be labeled handsome. His eyes were an arresting shade of amber brown—cool, watchful, and intelligent, but very hard to read. She sensed that he was always aware of what was going on around him, but she could not tell what he was thinking. He was the watcher in the shadows, not an actor on the stage.
There was something implacable and forbidding about him. She had the feeling that he would be slow to anger, but if you pushed him over the edge, he would make a formidable enemy. His revenge would be cold and thorough.
There was nothing about him that suggested he suffered from exhausted nerves.
She reminded herself that those who suffered from afflictions of the nerves often appeared quite normal. She was a case in point. She had been successfully passing for normal in Burning Cove for two months. No one had guessed that she had spent nearly two months locked up in the Rushbrook Sanitarium.
Order pad and pencil in hand, she whisked around the end of the counter and crossed the tearoom to the table where Jake Truett sat reading the Burning Cove Herald. His leather briefcase was on the floor beside his chair. She knew from eight days of personal observation that there was a yellow legal pad and four perfectly sharpened pencils inside. She also knew that after he finished reading the Herald from first page to last, he would open the briefcase, take out the yellow pad, and make notes.
He wore his customary uniform, a crisply pressed white shirt, an elegantly knotted tie, a cream-colored jacket, and dark brown trousers.
She knew that he was aware that she was approaching his table, but he waited until she came to a halt, pencil hovering over the order pad, before he looked up from the newspaper. She braced herself as she always did for the little electric thrill that crackled through her whenever she was this close to him.
He nodded once, gravely polite. “Good morning, Miss Brockton.”
“Good morning, Mr. Truett.” She gave him her bright, customer-friendly smile. “Will you be having the usual today?”
“Yes, please. The green tea. No sugar. No tea cakes. No scones. No cookies.”
His voice, low, resonant, and so very masculine, sent another whisper of excitement through her.
“Right,” she said. “Will that be all, then?”